Wild Cards and Iron Horses (7 page)

The sun had begun to set over the town, the light red beams struggling to break through the ever-present smog layers to announce its departure. Around him, people trotted along the wooden sidewalks, hustling by him in small groups of chattering women or mumbling men, a few brave couples sauntering along, arm in arm.

The shops were starting to close, the shutters drawn over windows stained dark with soot, the shopkeepers shooing out the last few reluctant customers. The gas lamps were being lit by a short, fat man who seemed to be moving slower than molasses, if that were possible. Or, Jon mused as he strolled along the sidewalk, maybe he was moving at regular speed and everyone else in Prosperity Ridge just ran faster.

Either way, he wasn’t going to stay in his room all night. He had a few hours to spare before sleep and there were always casual pick-up games that needed another player. There were only so many hands one could play by oneself, so to speak.

Almost instinctively he headed towards the tournament saloon, navigating as best he could from his previous experiences. He had made it a priority for every match to scope out the competition, most of which should have arrived by now. They may not have chosen a fine establishment like Mrs. McGuire’s to stay in, but they would be as eager as he to begin playing. The odds were that they too would be looking for any opportunity to sharpen their skills before the actual tournament a day away.

By the time he reached Deadeye’s Dodge, Jon’s eyes were burning and his lungs ached. The streets had emptied, with only a few stragglers wandering around. He suspected Gil would be one of them, disappearing into the shadows and somehow surviving in the town’s dark underbelly. He’d seen one or two small figures ducking in and out of the alleys. Jon shuddered inwardly, thinking of the lost children he’d seen in London. Some begged for spare change, setting themselves up on a corner and looking as sad as possible. Others tried their skills at pickpocketing, at least until the authorities caught them and shipped them off to one of the colonies to serve their time. Still others ended up offering their services to the men and women who wandered the night looking for companionship.

Jon glanced into the darkness, searching a shadowy alley for the elusive Gil. Perhaps he could do something for the urchin before leaving Prosperity Ridge. The boy was intelligent and deserved better than running errands and the like.

With one foot on the saloon’s front step, Jon paused. His thoughts wandered back to the workshop and the strangely enchanting Samantha Weatherly. It was too late to go back and disturb her, enquire about the status of his spring and the possible repair. But he couldn’t get her face out of his mind’s eye, or forget the soft, gentle touch of her fingers on his scarred skin.

A man stumbled through the doors, reeking of cheap whiskey. He stared at Jonathan with bleary, bloodshot eyes and grinned.

Returning the smile, Jon continued up the steps. The beautiful engineer could wait until morning.

Right now he had to assess his competition and get ready for possibly the most important poker games of his life.

A familiar voice split the air as Jon entered the saloon, destroying his inner peace and threatening to force the good food from his belly. “Ah, Jonathan. I thought I’d see you here.”

The curses bubbled up in his throat when he recognized the voice’s owner. Victor Morton. Turning to the left, Jon spotted the older man sitting at a table in the back of the saloon. Victor laughed, rocking back and forth on the rickety wooden chair.

The man wore the latest New York fashion, a black and gold braided waistcoat snug against his robust belly, a black suit jacket tight across his broad shoulders. A garish gold chain hung down and across the vest, attached to a family heirloom pocket watch that didn’t even work and which he had no intention of having repaired. He’d told Jon that once while taking yet another pot, scooping the coins off the table.

“Useless as tits on a bull, but my mother would die if I didn’t wear it. And I won’t waste the money to have it fixed…” Morton laughed, “…and it’s not worth anything to pawn or sell, so I’m stuck wearing the damned thing.” At the time they had been friends.

“Come on over here, we’ve got a spot open.” The long thin fingers waved in the air.

Jon advanced towards the back of the room, making his way around the tables. Most of them were empty, the majority of the customers standing at the bar. The bartender, a bald man with only one eye, studied Jon for only a second before turning his attention back to his business. He grabbed another round of coins from the countertop and the eager customers waiting for their drinks.

“So, what brings you to Prosperity Ridge?” Victor asked as Jon took the open chair opposite him.

“The same as you.” Jon nodded to the other two men at the table. “The Ridge Rocket Stakes.”

“Ah.” Victor pulled a cigar from an inside pocket. After biting off one edge, he spat the nub onto the floor. He struck a match and lit the open wound, sucking deep on the thick bundle. Tossing the spent stick over his shoulder, Victor took a deep puff on the fresh cigar. “Nothing like a good smoke.” He smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Cheaper than women and always there when you want one.”

One of the men, an older man, got to his feet. “I know when I’m outmatched. Victor Morton and Jon Handleston at one table.” He touched the brim of his dark blue cavalry hat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll walk away now.” This was directed to the young man sitting opposite him.

The remaining gambler looked around the table, his blue eyes sizing up the competition. Suddenly he grinned and got to his feet. “My mother didn’t raise any idiots.” Nodding to the two men, he scrambled to leave the saloon.

“Thanks for scaring away the locals.” Victor scowled, scratching his thick grey beard. “Almost had it all.”

“You had enough.” Jon looked at the stack of bills and coins in front of his competition. It added up to almost a hundred dollars, easily.

The wooden chair moaned under Morton’s weight. “True, they’re hardly much of a challenge. But it occupies my time until I get the chance to take your money. Again.” He smiled. “And that’ll be soon enough.”

“This is a good town. Filled with good people.” Jon pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “We’re just passing through. Don’t steal from them.”

“Jon, you should know me by now. I never steal.” The gambler spread his hands, a sneer on his face.

“Besides, it’s just another one-train town on the line. I’ve seen dozens of them, as you have. Or you will, in time. They may hate us, but we bring them business. We bring them the attention they want and need to survive.” He pointed towards the bar. “There’s already five reporters here to send the stories back East.”

Jon followed his gaze. The familiar faces glanced his way and then turned back to their drinks. They must have come in on the train behind him, or perhaps the one before, all of them scoping out the competition and feeding the information to the bookies before filing their own stories. Even now the bookies would be collecting bets as they waited for the outcome to make and break other men’s fortunes. A long, unbroken chain of greed that stretched around the world.

“All waiting for the winner of the Ridge Rocket Stakes. Which, of course, will be myself.” Finishing off the last few drops of whiskey, Victor got to his feet. “And don’t you worry, I’ll be watching you. You and that infernal contraption of yours. I don’t know how you cheat, but I’ll catch you at it this time. And when I do…” his Cheshire cat smile spread across his face, “…you won’t be able to find a decent game anywhere in the world.” A flash of anger lit his eyes. “And you’ll be finished.”

Jon didn’t move as the older man strode by, brushing hard against the chair and Jon’s right shoulder.

He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, waiting to see if he would dare call out Victor, challenge him to a duel or a shootout or whatever they called it out here on the frontier.

The small derringer in his vest pocket felt heavier than the cannonballs he’d slept near during the war.

He turned away from the table and strolled towards the door, allowing Victor to leave first. No one spoke to him on the way. A man scowled at him, but since he was missing an eye and an ear, Jon considered it more of a compliment than a reprimand.

The door slammed behind him with a crash. Victor was nowhere in sight; the streets were deserted.

The harsh night air was cool, but was still a thick gel settling in his lungs. It stuck to his face, mixing with the sweat on his upper lip. Jon willed his pulse to settle. There was no use letting Victor get under his skin before the tournament started.

“Bastard,” Jon murmured to the darkness.

“Sir?” Gil appeared at his side.

Jon jumped, just a fraction of an inch. “What? What?” His right hand twitched, automatically preparing to reach for the derringer.

“Sorry, sir. Don’t mean to scare ya. Miss Sam sent me to find you, said she needed to see you right fast.” The youngster scratched his knee, rubbing through a gap in the thin linen pants. “She seemed quite excited, she did.”

Without waiting for the kid, Jon trotted along the wooden sidewalk. Victor could wait, the fascinating woman engineer could not. Not to mention she was much more pleasing on the eyes.

His long legs moved faster and faster, outpacing the street urchin until he was practically running towards the garage. He unerringly plotted the fastest route and avoided the alleyways, even with the youngster by his side. Coming to a skittering stop at the workshop door, he pounded on it with his left fist.

Gil peered at him, chewing on his lower lip before disappearing back into an alleyway.

The door opened a crack, then all the way in response to his knocking. Jake grinned, silhouetted against the interior’s bright lights. He waved him inside.

“Ah, then. The child found you. I was afraid that you’d turned in for the night. Not that we wouldn’t have woken you up, you understand, but Mrs. McGuire would never let me hear the end of it.” He pointed towards the workbench. “Sam forgot to take some measurements and she isn’t going to sleep a wink tonight until she gets a handle on this problem, so if you don’t mind…”

Jon stepped inside the workshop, wiping his forehead with one sleeve. The dark blue sleeve came away with a black stain on it, absorbing both the sweat and soot of the town. Jake motioned him onward, returning to his position at another table where he fidgeted with a series of gears. “Just over there, if you please. She’ll be with you in a minute. You’ll have to forgive me, we’re on a deadline with this particular project and I can’t spare time to chat.”

Trying to slow his racing heart, Jon adjusted his jacket before walking over to the far table. The workshop took on a new, much more sinister appearance at night. Shadows extended far across and up the brick walls, images of giant gears and springs and wires strung around the room. In the corner, the once-harmless silhouette of the iron horse now breathed darkness and danger, the metal head with eyeless sockets staring at him. Candles offered the slightest of illumination, with a few of the newfangled electrical bulbs spread out around the workshop, flickering with the attempt to deliver a stable light to work by. A fireplace set in the back wall roared with enthusiasm, the burning logs determined to throw off more light than the pretenders.

Samantha stood by the drafting table, still scribbling on the paper, which was almost filled with calculations and drawings. The stool stood nearby, unused. Her leather coat hung on a small hook set in the wall. The white men’s shirt she had been wearing on his previous visit hung off her slender figure, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. A small nub of a pencil sat in her right hand, dashing across the page as she wrote mathematical equations he couldn’t hope to understand.

She looked up at his approach, her mouth open. “Oh!” The woman gave a sideways glance at her father, almost scowling at the older man. “I didn’t think you’d be here so quickly.”

A half-eaten slice of chicken pot pie sat next to an inch-high stack of paper, threatening to sprawl crumbs across the worktable.

Jon frowned. “I’m sorry. Did I disturb your dinner?”

Jake laughed as he walked by. His lone hand slapped Jon on the back. “Ah, it’s a miracle she eats anything. Besides, she can’t cook worth a darn. We order in from the shops when she gets a fire going in her belly.” This earned him another scowl from his daughter.

“I need to see your device again.” The pencil scratched the rough paper. “I think we may have something we can adapt to your needs. There’s no way I can create a metal spring like this in the time you have. But I need more exact measurements to make sure.”

Without hesitating, Jon stripped off his clothing. This was no time to be shy about his body, and she’d already seen him without his shirt. At the back of his mind a small voice mumbled something about reversing the situation. Grinding his teeth together, Jon placed the shirt and jacket over the same chair he had used the last time. Leaning over, he laid his forearm across the drawing table. The offending little finger flopped against the metal brace, daring him to try and move it.

“Hmm.” Sam ran a long, thin measuring tape along the narrow copper band leading down the small finger to the main connection. “Hmm.” A second measurement across the palm of his hand. “Hmm.” A third check of the hole the spring originally came from, this time with a pair of small calipers. “Was there a cover on this? Something to keep the spring actually in?”

“Ah…” Jon frowned, pressing his lips tightly together. “I don’t really remember.”

“There must have been,” she announced. “There’s no way it would have just stayed in there. You were lucky it worked for as long as it did without the cork.” One long, slender finger tapped the open hole.

“From looking at the others it was a metal plug, sealed with wax. Candle wax, I wager, from the little bit I can still see around the edges. Enough to hold it in place and bear the flexing back and forth.”

“Ah.” The response wasn’t much, but it was all he could muster. “So you can fix it?” The words came out with a bit of an upwards lilt, betraying his desperation. If it couldn’t be repaired, then he would have to either withdraw from the tournament or risk losing it all, months of work tossed to the side like a dirty rag in the garbage.